


Black Ichor

by konfoz



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Courting Rituals, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter as Hades (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Language of Flowers, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, True Love, Will Graham as Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Will has flower hair!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26628454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konfoz/pseuds/konfoz
Summary: "When the whisper of a shadow seeps through the cracks, Will finally understands.'It’s you,' he breathes out.The man only watches him, but there’s pleasure shining through his eyes.'You’re the killer who left the body on Jack’s doorstep.'The obsidian entity. The existence deep beneath the earth.The one that makes the innermost and wickedest part of me sing."
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 149





	Black Ichor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [felicitysmoakqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicitysmoakqueen/gifts).



> Dedicated to @nornorenor on Twitter, for the warm welcome I received as a baby Fannibal<3
> 
> Thank you as always to my dear friend Frankie for reading this over, and I extend a big hug to Le Joe Nation for their constant support and encouragement!
> 
> This a loose interpretation of the myth of Hades and Persephone. I took some liberties with the roles and the gods’ power, so please be gentle with me :)

He can sense everything.

The tension of the rocks compressed by the weight of his feet. The endless surge of water that shapes itself around his knees and pulls at his legs. The rich moss that rests and lurks at the edge of the embankment. The weight of his fishing rod and the line that is cast out in the depths, acting as an extension of himself.

He can also smell a sharp purity in the air --- the precipitation in the atmosphere and its oncoming rainfall. He feels the weight of gravity and his displacement in the environment, even through his embeddedness in his domain. He sees the ants on the bark of the trees that shroud the river and color it a verdant green. He senses the hundreds of fish that inhabit the water for miles upon miles, then focuses on the one that catches on to his fishing lure. The one that struggles to escape the trap he has laid out. He feels the sting of the hook as it digs into the mouth of the trout, its lifeforce starting to leach its way out of its body and into the water as it continues to fight the prick of the metal that tears at its lips.

He smiles. Then _pulls_.

* * * * *

“Will.”

The voice comes from behind him, both forceful and hesitant. He knows he shouldn’t be here. It’s not that he’s unwelcome in this space, but fences were erected ages ago and strategically reinforced throughout the years by someone other than Will. Through requests, then warnings, then demands.

But it’s ignorant to order around one so mighty.

Still presenting his back, Will wipes down the boat propeller in his hands. “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but we both know you only came here because you want something.”

A pause. Then:

“You’re right. I’m in need of your gift.”

The fences are not palpable, yet they are a pale imitation to the ones that Will has built up in his own mind.

At this, Will sets down the part on the wooden work table in front of him and grasps the edge with both hands, arm muscles coiled thick with tension. He lets out an incredulous huff of breath that can pass for a laugh, and his head drops to rest defeated between his shoulder blades. “Whatever it is, I probably shouldn’t get involved.”

Will feels rather than hears Jack step closer to him, fully entering the doorway of the shed. If he concentrates hard enough, past the physical sensations he receives from touch, smell, and sight, Will can just make out the undercurrent of power that ripples off Jack in crackles of heat.

He’s tamping it down, though, either out of respect for Will or out of the fear that he will flee.

“I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.”

The corners of Will’s mouth sink down, and he says, “You didn’t ask in the first place,” as he finally turns to face the King of the Gods. Before Jack can say anything in response to that, and before Will can stop himself, he adds against his own better judgement, “What makes this one so different?”

Will figures that this is probably the first time that Jack breaks his gaze away from his form since entering his space, his eyes now on something near the back corner of the shed. Despite his trepidation, Jack’s chin tilts up and his arms stay steady by his side. “It’s in my jurisdiction, but my guys already figured out that the body was moved from the original scene of the crime.” Now his eyes cut to Will’s, the glint in them stony and pitiless. “Whoever our killer is deliberately left it on my doorstep.”

Will forces himself to look at the collar of Jack’s tan trench coat. He knows that Jack is trying to hook him in; if Jack really wanted to, he could demand Will’s compliance, but he does his best work when he’s invested. His curiosity fuels that nameless, sinister part inside him that Will tries his hardest to push down. It’s a wake up call to the being that resides in the ruins, and although it’s fulfilling to satisfy that entity, it’s always just a temporary fix.

If Jack finds out about how deep those thoughts run, he’d do anything to find a way to use it to his advantage. But by the time Will unleashes that part of himself, it’s impossible for anyone to completely cage it.

There will always be lingering shadows, the ones that lurk in the corners with the gathering dust and bide their time. Their impression is always there, but never tangible.

Jack must take Will’s silence as evidence that he’s caving in, so he moves closer. Will finds himself unable to back away because of the work table digging into his spine, so he tries to settle his bewilderment into the invasion of his personal space. Then, gentler than Will thinks him capable, Jack lifts a hand and pries one of the many flowers that sprout in between Will’s curls. Before he plucks it from his hair, Will senses that it’s a begonia bud: a flat white head bordered by pale pink. The small snap is the only sound he hears; he can’t even tell if he’s breathing.

Jack steps away, twirling the little bud in his fingers before he says, “This killer is arrogant. He’s already amassed enough attention from this stunt alone.” He shakes his head. “I can’t catch him without your gift.” 

Will swallows, then ducks his head so the frames of his glasses partially obscure the figure in front of him. “Have you told Alana yet?”

Jack’s voice borders on thunderous. “I do not need permission from Alana Bloom.” At Will’s frown, he smooths it out the smallest bit. “She answers to _me_. If she has a problem with your involvement, then she can bring it up herself.”

A stab of anticipation crumbles the rest of Will’s resolve, now laying dead at his feet. As much as he wishes it weren’t so, he can feel that dark element inside him lifting its head, slowly gaining vitality. As one they both rise --- Will from his leaning position against the work table and the thing from its spot on the bedrock of Will’s mind --- and give Jack an acquiescing nod.

“All right.” Will sighs. “Take me there.”

* * * * *

When Jack said that the killer left the victim’s body intentionally on his doorstep, Will didn’t think he meant it _literally_.

Jack materialized them in the driveway of his personal residence. The ordinarily mundane and quiet street is overrun by Jack’s hands, with part of the road sectioned off to ensure privacy. The residential building towering in front of Will is a two-storied brick colonial revival house with towering white pillars --- something deceivingly simple for the King of the Gods.

Will’s gaze shifts to lock on the scene in front of him: beyond the yellow tape and moving bodies, past the click of the cameras and the tense air that saturates the area, is a large, suspended body. The prone, naked form dangles down from the outdoor lighting fixture centered above the entrance to the house, feet inches from skimming the floor. On the head --- limp against the man’s chest --- is a wreath of dried up olive leaves, brown and brittle from decay.

But the most glaring detail is the crude zig-zag etched into the man’s entire torso. The symbol gleams radiant and red against his pale skin tone, spanning from the collarbone down to the navel, and Will doesn’t need to be a genius to know that the image is the shape of a-

“A lightning bolt. Subtle, right?”

Almost as if she appeared out of nowhere, Beverly stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Will, their clothes almost brushing. Her arrival brings a flurry of air, the force of her being carrying the wind. Her maroon leather jacket, decidedly unusual for an Aurai, creaks when she shifts to cross her arms in front of her chest. “The guy’s in a noose but that’s not how he died. He sustained injuries beyond that of the cut, but it’s obvious he was alive when the mark was sliced into his skin.”

Will’s eyes rove over the picture in front of them. “Do we know where the crime actually took place?”

She shakes her head. “We only know he was hauled up there after being drained, and whoever killed this guy also took some goodies with him.” At Will’s questioning look, she elaborates. “The stomach and the lungs.”

Jack steps up from behind the pair to stare at the body alongside them. To Beverly, he asks, “Do we have an ID on the victim yet?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Will interrupts, “It’s who he represents, not who he actually is.”

“Well what can you find out for us?”  
  
Beverly slips away, aware of where the conversation is going and hoping to avoid the inevitable. Will wishes he could follow her. “You don’t need me to read this crime scene, Jack. It’s so straightforward even a freshman English major could analyze it.”

“Humor me, then.”

Will sighs. “It’s evident that this man is a substitute for you: the crown, the emblem, the location. The killer wouldn’t have moved the body over here otherwise.” Will chuckles dryly. “He’s even hanging from the heavens.”

The silence stretches as they both take in the scene together. Jack is smart enough to recognize the iconography, but he mutters, “Why did our killer do this?” As an afterthought, he adds, “Why now?”

“Made any enemies recently, Jack?”

Will feels the glare rather than sees it. “I still want you to do your thing and figure out the missing pieces.”

Will is not given a chance to respond before he hears a dull hum and a crack --- the air suddenly empty besides lingering echoes of electricity. He turns back towards the yard to find it devoid of any lifeforms. The only evidence that something is amiss comes from the swirling clouds that undulate in the gray sky when it was a clear day moments before; it is as if there was nobody there just a second ago, and Will shivers from the traces of static that cling to open air.

Jack understands what Will needs to achieve complete concentration.

He faces the body and inspects it one more time before closing his eyes, allowing the shadows of the corpse to creep into his head and nudge at the darkness that resides within. The last remnants of light appear to sway in his mind like a metronome before he feels the gentle safety of the black. The skin of the killer slinks effortlessly over Will, and he accepts the warmth of its shape as it settles to rest in his bones. 

When Will’s eyes open, he is in a different but unrecognizable place. The edges of his periphery are blurry and distorted, his sole object of consideration being the soon-to-be-dead man. The effects of the tunnel vision allow him to fully appreciate the figure in front of him: he is merely average, but in this case that is exactly what he is going for. 

“I choose you because you are human. Mundane,” says Will in a monotone voice. “This is your only fault, but you are the perfect portrait to assume your new identity.”

It’s pathetic how easy it is to accost the target --- almost as simple as scoring the meat of his torso in a long, jagged line. Will admires the streams of blood that trickle out and over the seams of the cut, likening it to rivulets of fine red silk. 

“The slit of skin and the copper of the excrements fit your Promethean origins. You came from clay, but I am the artist ready to mold you into something greater.”

The screams of the victim wash over him as he digs his hands into the body, embracing the heat of life that pulses in time with his heartbeat and the last of the man’s dying breaths.

Will is back again at Jack’s residence, tying an arbor knot to exhibit the piece. “I allow the rope to assume its intended purpose: the longer he hangs and the more he moves, the tighter the knot gets.” After hefting the body up, he places the band of olives on his head and steps back to take it all in.

He breathes in the tartness of the blood, the bitterness from the olive leaves, and…

Will pauses.

He senses himself unwillingly shedding the killer’s skin, his mind putting distance between the two. It’s like he’s having an out-of-body experience in his own imagination. The world halts around him --- every animal, person, insect for miles. Particles in the air stall and Will’s own breath gets caught in his throat.

He feels lightweight and delicate, floating closer to the scene in front of him. He is conscious that he no longer occupies the killer’s body, but he has yet to return to his own. The dead space around him is a vacuum of nothingness, yet _something_ caught his attention and led him to this void.

It’s what flows around the body:

Obsidian. 

Liquid ripples that glimmer with streaks of metallic ink, flashing indigo despite an absence of light. Will _feels_ the weight of it rather than actually _sees_ it. It’s heavy yet luminescent, and the closer he gets the more he can sense its beckoning caress, a cradle of protection disguised as thorny shadows.

Its presence is magnetic, and when Will makes contact, that cataclysmic entity in his own mind sighs out in relief. Its cooling effect both soothes and rejuvenates the beast, and Will bubbles out a resounding purr from deep within his chest. His darkness melts with the rich apparition, stretching and filling, intimate and sultry.

With two voices that are one, Will and the obsidian essence whisper, “This is my design.”

Will gasps and snaps back into reality.

* * * * *

Somehow Jack knows when Will finishes, but by the time he pops back in Will is jittery with exertion and residual energy. If Jack notices his current state, he doesn’t mention it; he just looks at him expectantly while Will tries to compose himself.

He’s never experienced that sensation when using his gift before, and the intensity of it tilts his center of gravity. There has always been that layer of temptation, but not as acute as that, like something was reaching out to him and calling his own name.

Will runs a hand down his face and begins to prepare himself for Jack’s reaction. “Whoever did this is mocking you.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Jack says. Will’s skin itches at his subdued temper, small tendrils of it making the air buzz. “What else?”

“This man didn’t matter to the killer.” Will inhales deeply, then backtracks, “ _Humans_ don’t matter. Their only purpose is to serve him and his needs.”

“How do you know we’re looking for a male?”

Will pauses, then blinks a few times to clear his head. How _does_ he know that?

“It seems more likely.” Before Jack can question it, Will barrels on. “By picking a human as a victim, he’s also ridiculing you. Like he doesn’t respect your authority or see you as a threat.” 

Jack crosses his arms, and Will swears he sees something like a thundercloud pass over his face. “But what does he expect to gain from this? He just wanted to piss me off?”

Will shakes his head and shifts his body, restless. “No, it’s not that. There’s--” he swallows, “--sophistication in the corruption.” Before he can dig deeper, Will switches that line of thinking. “And the fact that he did this, right under your nose and in your domain, says something about the killer’s capabilities.”

Jack stares at him with a furrow in his brow, and the sky starts to darken. “Will.” He moves forward, trying to catch Will’s eye, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“He’s not some random killer who has a bone to pick with you.” Will meets his gaze for the first time since his return. “This is the work of a deity.”

“WILL!”

He startles at the intrusion, then winces in recognition of the voice. Both turn to see Alana making her way up the lawn, leaving shocks of crabgrass and yellow dandelions in her wake. Her plum-colored pantsuit and coiffed brown hair stay perfectly arranged as she stomps towards them, each step sprouting carpets of weeds on the yard in front of the house.

Jack sighs. “This is a crime scene, Alana. You can’t be here."

Will squirms at the glower she levels at Jack. “Will is my responsibility. I told you to stay away from him.”

“Alana-”

“I can go anywhere I want as long as he’s there.”

“But this is my house.” Jack gestures behind him. “This is my land, and more importantly, _this is all my realm_.” His voice rumbles as the sky does, and the reverberation of it shakes Will’s bones. “I am the Supreme Deity. The Almighty Power. Ethereal King.”

Peals of lightning dance in the atmosphere, appearing in blinding flashes and meteoric spasms. Will shields his face from the striking wind, but through his fingers he can see the hanging body of the victim ominously swinging in time with the currents.

Even through the roaring in his ears and claps of thunder, Jack’s words carry and pierce the air. “I am the Ruler of _All_ Olympians, so don’t think you hold any sort of power over me, Alana. You overstep your bounds.”

All the chaos abruptly evaporates, but Will still hears a faint ringing from the frenzy. He runs a hand through his hair and risks a glance in Alana’s direction.

To her credit, she didn’t cower through Jack’s display, but Will catches her hands shaking before she balls them into fists. Then she directs that same glare to him, and Will ducks his head. Desperately, she says, “You know what looking at this stuff does to you.”

Before Will can answer, she pivots towards Jack again and asks, as if that display didn’t happen seconds before, “Is he done here?”

Jack closes his eyes and nods once, and Will can’t tell if he’s trying to reign in his ire or if he feels spent from that show of strength before he’s pulled off the front steps by Alana’s grip around his wrist.

Will takes one more look at the tableau behind him before they vanish into thin air.

* * * * *

As soon as they arrive back to Wolf Trap, Will braces himself for the scolding he’s sure to receive.

Alana lets go of his hand, but instead of confronting him she moves to the center of his property and begins muttering under her breath, arms out in front of her and eyes closed.

Will takes a second to stare at her and rub his face before approaching her. He knows it’s better to get this talking-to over now, rather than let Alana’s wrath fester. He can barely make out the words falling quietly and swiftly from her lips, but he detects her energy signature flowing through the air to form a veiled bubble around his home.

“Protective glamour? You think that’s enough to stop Jack?"

He probably shouldn’t try to antagonize her more, but Will is still shaken up from the revelations at the crime scene and the mysterious force behind it.

Alana ignores him, and it’s only when Will feels the spell snap into place that she turns around to regard him. “If you know what’s good for you, you shouldn’t pull this stunt again.”

“I thought only you seem to know what’s best for me,” Will mutters sarcastically.

Before he can react, Alana is in his face, close enough to see the gold ring around her cobalt irises. “I’ve told you to stay away from Jack before. He only wants to use you.”

“You don’t think I know that already?” Will exclaims. When Alana steps back, he softens his voice, “I can’t stand back and watch innocents die with the knowledge that I can do something to stop it.”

“And what about you?” Her face hardens. “Jack is powerful, but even he has limitations to that power. He can’t save you if you go off the deep end, Will. It’s in his nature to keep pushing if it leads to the outcome he wants.”

Will remembers how drained Jack looked like after the dispute, as if showing his hand had tired him out. When he doesn’t answer, Alana nods once, resigned. “I can’t keep Jack from seeking you out again, but the wards I put up are more of a warning than anything, to make my displeasure known.”

“He already knows you disapprove. He ignored the first few times, and then your attempts after that.” Now Will is the one on the offensive. “You can keep building fences and resorting to blackmail, but at the end of the day it’s _my_ decision to choose to help him or not.”

“As your guardian I forbid you from using your gift again.”

It’s as if the temperature drops from that demand alone. The beast inside Will rears its head, and a loaded silence cuts into the sounds of the environment around them. The heaviness of the words knock through Will like lead pinballs until he inhales to dispel some of the pressure. 

He clicks his tongue and gives her a wooden smile. “Please get off my property, Alana.”

She stares at him for a moment, then brushes her hair from her face. “I’m not like this for no reason. This is all to keep you safe.” As she begins to disappear, she holds his eyes. “One day you’ll understand that.”

Will remains where he is even after Alana is gone, replaying past conversations they’ve had on this subject in his head. They usually result in the same objections, but never has Alana pulled something like this.

Finally given the space to breathe, Will loosens his shoulders and tips his head up the sky, trying to absorb his surroundings through the muffled thrum of the glamour. It only encompasses the immediate area around his house, and he’s grateful that even with Alana’s authority over him, she cannot tap into the full extent of her abilities here.

Will wants a break, at least for a little bit. His performance earlier and the subsequent argument tired him out, and he can’t relax with the product of Alana’s influence in his orbit or knowing that Jack can pop up any minute again.

He goes to the front door to let the dogs out, and after they scamper out into the yard and the surrounding trees, Will follows. When he passes through the shield to the other side, right before he hits the edge of the forest, he feels lighter than before. Each step into the mass of green feels like he’s being cleansed, or like he’s ridding himself of the vitriol from his past confrontation. Alana would probably advise him to stay inside the circle, but she also frequently encourages Will to cultivate his other powers --- the ones that pertain to the natural world.

To her, those are habitual and organic. Safe. In a way they are because they’re a part of Will, but he keeps a tight hold over them for those same reasons.

As the deity that guides spring growth, nature is a way to recharge. It’s why he loves fishing, especially it being a solitary activity, but being so connected to the outdoors means he consumes all of it, even parts he shies away from.

The life of the earth runs through his veins, but so does death.

Although his dogs aren’t in his line of vision, he can sense them dashing between tree trunks and frolicking in flower beds, just as he can sense all the wildlife and byproducts of the living world. There are distinctions between the beat of bird wings and the beat of a deer’s heart, the squeaking of intertwined branches and the squeaking of rabbits in the brush, the spurting of water in the stream and the spurting of a new leaf on a shrub.

He can control all of it, if he really wants to.

The only aspect he hasn’t been able to shackle is his hair. He tends to have poppies, black hellebores, and small acorns as frequent residents within his chocolate curls, but bouquets and other plants tend to proliferate depending on his mood.

Will tugs at a singular petunia flower with striking fuchsia petals, already matured. He tenderly picks it free and examines it as he treads to his favorite clearing. He doesn’t let go until he arrives there and sits back against the bark of a towering oak; when he’s comfortable, he buries it in the soil to decompose, and then relaxes his body, taking it all in. He’s unsure why this particular area of land invigorates him more than anywhere else in the forest, but the energy here is more palpable and easier to latch onto.

His dogs manage to find the usual spot on their own, all of them trickling in and laying amongst the cushiony grass or basking in the sun rays that peek through the dense canopy of leaves. He admires the glittering of the nearby lake, its smooth surface broken up every once in a while by the displacement of a bug or leaf. An ethereal quality settles over the clearing, painting the entire scenery in soft luminescence and lulling its occupants into a state of tranquility.

Will closes his eyes and eases the hold on his self-control. He expands his mind out and over the landscape, allowing the gentle scrape of unrestrained vigor to seep into his pores and the purity of the atmosphere to sweep over him. Then, he plants his hands down on the floor.

The hazy feeling that overcomes him is similar to what he usually taps into, but the sensations are stronger when he’s surrounded by the flora and fauna. It’s almost like when he reads a crime scene, except without all the killing and nightmares that follow it. The essence of the natural world flows through his veins and relieves the invisible aches inside him; like this, just brushing the surface, he’s able to tamp down his own darkness.

He digs a little more, beyond the undergrowth and into the roots of the plants in the packed dirt. Here the ground buzzes with the flow and sounds of bugs and insects. The soil is warm and teeming with activity, so he follows the paths left behind from what lurk below.

The more he buries himself in the earth, the farther his influence reaches. He scatters his power in all pockets of space, raising burgeoning seedlings and coaxing stalks to break through to reach the vestiges of sunlight and fresh air. Even when pushing old roots down and fledgling stems upward, that energized high does not wane.

He continues on further down, reaching deeper into the heart of the planet than he’s ever done so before. His power swells, and he’s aware of his own inhales and exhales matching that of the earth’s and all things alive.

Suddenly, he brushes against something off-beat from his own breath, something functioning outside of his own sphere. The crease that forms between his brow feels miles away, so invested he is in the world around him. He circles the force cautiously, then moves closer.

It hits him immediately: shadows. Murkiness. An eclipse between his territory and an unknown region.

Obsidian.

He gasps, and the movement from his lips travels all the way down from his physical body to the tips of his presence in the earth. The reaction and proximity of the mysterious essence awakens the answer inside of him, the darkness rising to meet its complement.

His fingernails sink into the dirt, as if to tether himself to it. He makes a decision, and slowly, he stretches his hand to stroke the mass of black.

“That is quite rude.”

Will’s thrown back into his physical body, heaving and trembling. He feels both weightless on the inside but heavy on the outside, as if he was struck by a great gust of air. The effects of the whiplash leaves a ringing in his ears, and he struggles to focus on what’s happening in front of him.

He clears his throat, but the question still comes out scratchy, “What?”

In the middle of the small clearing stands a man in a tailored grey suit, lines of red plaid spread across his shoulders, over his chest, and to his ankles. He’s dressed much more formally than Will: a three-piece with a tie and gleaming black shoes that look out of place among the grass. The light that emerges from the leafy roof of the forest catches his perfectly-slicked back hair and high cheekbones, and it bathes him in a glowing aura.

“It is rude to go poking around someone else’s domain without express permission,” the stranger says in an accented voice.

Will, still reeling from the past experience, only manages a meager, “You’re actually in mine.”

The man tilts his head, eyes roving over Will’s seated form. Questions ricochet in Will’s head, but before he manages to lock on to one almost all of his dogs approach the man and sniff his clothes.

He doesn’t give the impression that the animals bother him. “It seems like they can still smell traces of dog on me.” His hand pets Max’s fur while the others are content to watch and wag their tails.

When he makes no move to leave, Will stands and brushes the dirt off his clothes. “Who are you?” Irritation colors his tone.

The look he levels Will is intense, and he realizes he can’t move his eyes away like he usually does. The silence crests, then:

“I believe you do not need me to tell you that.”

If Will was dazed before, he’s completely bewildered now. He tries to not let it show on his face, and instead removes his glasses and turns his attention to his visitor fully.

Elegance and opulence practically oozes from his attire, but it’s also present in his temperament. His stance is relaxed, even with the swarm of dogs at his feet, but his posture is upright and proper. Regal.

Will dispels the outward appearance, past the refinement, to read what’s underneath.

The man does a good job of masking his true presence; to anyone else, he resembles a regular human. When Will looks closer, he barely makes out the hint of something supernatural, just enough to disregard. He could be a mythic humanoid or even a minor deity, but nothing beyond that to an observer.

But Will knows this man is more than what he seems. He hadn’t even sensed him until he was right in front of him, only when the man wanted him to be aware of his arrival. Even with him standing feet away, in Will’s own domain, he can’t grasp his impression in the air or around the environment. It’s almost as if he’s camouflaging himself --- a wraith that cannot be tethered.

Still, Will presses against the illusion, convinced that there’s more to him than just a phantom. When he comes upon the base of the armor, biting and ironclad, instead of trying to push through like he normally would, he simply regards the structure.

He doesn’t know why he does it until he feels the creature inside him take over. He expects it to barrel through, shove its weight, _anything_. 

Anything except gently lay a hand on the wall.

When the whisper of a shadow seeps through the cracks, Will finally understands.

“It’s you,” he breathes out.

The man only watches him, but there’s pleasure shining through his eyes.

“You’re the killer who left the body on Jack’s doorstep.” 

_The obsidian entity. The existence deep beneath the earth._

_The one that makes the innermost and wickedest part of me sing._

All of this is left unsaid, but they both hear the unspoken admission.

The smile he directs at Will is barely there, but Will feels the warmth of it spread throughout his body. “If I had known about you before, Kore, I would have introduced myself a long time ago.” When Will’s cheeks flush at the name, he says, “I am Hannibal, the King of the Underworld and God of the Dead.”

Will frowns. “Why haven’t I met you before?”

Hannibal’s mouth thins. “I imagine it was the Great Mother’s doing. She must have concealed you from me.”

Alana.

Will’s eyes narrow. “What reason would she have to hide me?” Apart from the usual controversy about his gift, he’s never been particularly sheltered by anything other than his own doing.

Something carnal flashes in Hannibal’s eyes, and Will has to repress a shiver. After a moment, Hannibal hums. “I can make an educated guess.” At Will’s confusion, he goes on, “When you caught on to my footprint at the crime scene, that triggered a signal. I brushed it off, likening it to pure chance, but I sensed it again at the forefront of my realm.” Hannibal shrinks the distance to move closer, energizing the particles between their bodies. “I knew then that it was no coincidence, and that I was dealing with someone truly remarkable.”

Will’s mouth goes dry. “It wasn’t hard,” he manages to verbalize. “You called out to me.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “My powers are ancient and primordial, but I’ve kept to myself for eons, enough to have Jack dismiss me from his memory.” He gazes into Will’s eyes with intention. “You are the first and only to recognize the darkness. Recognize _me_ \--” he licks his lips, “--and for that I will have you.”

Will’s heart stutters, but he forces his mind to clear itself of the scent of rich minerals and the flaring heat in Hannibal’s eyes. When his back connects with the tree he was sitting under moments ago, he breaks from his gaze instead. “Don’t you consider yourself being too forward?”  
  
Hannibal is undeterred. “I now find that there is a lack of alternatives where you are concerned, particularly with your unique capabilities. Wouldn’t you rather I be forthcoming in my declarations or do you seek comfort in facile fabrications?” He smirks. “Much like the illustration I bestowed upon Jack Crawford and consequently, the rest of his subjects.”

“Since you brought it up,” Will side-steps him, and when he doesn’t make a move to follow, Will asks, “What were you hoping to get out of riling him up?”

Hannibal clasps his arms behind him, the picture of a perfect gentleman. “Ever since my becoming, I realized that I am unlike my brothers. This notion was enhanced when granted responsibility of the Underworld, when I was cast aside.” He paces languidly, shoulders back and accented tone evenly paced. “Despite this, I was able to test my powers unhindered, and while I gained strength by the day, I discovered the antithesis in dear old Jack.”

Will thinks back to earlier that morning again and he feels the truth, not only in Hannibal’s words but in the pressure of the heavens themselves, bearing their weight down in heedlessness. 

“I bided my time --- centuries spent observing the gods--”

“--But why now?”

The interruption does not ruffle Hannibal. “Because there has been a change in the cosmos. Jack and the other gods --- evidently all except you ---- are at the weakest point they have ever been, and I intend to take full advantage of such an opportunity.”

Will shifts and minutely dips his chin. “Revenge is not a good look on you, Hannibal.”

“It is not revenge,” he says matter-of-factly. “It is simply a matter of predominance.”

“And a superiority complex.”

Hannibal smiles. “If the crown fits.”

The activity of the forest fills the quiet, but then Hannibal twists his neck to the side, listening to something that Will cannot hear. His eyes shut, almost as if he’s holding back from saying or doing something in front of Will, and then he abruptly straightens.

“Forgive my impertinence, but I have some matters to attend to.” He inclines his head, then utters fondly, “I will be thinking of you, Will. Shall I presume the same on your end?”

It’s the last thing Hannibal says before he’s swallowed up by the ground.

* * * * *

Will’s nightmares that evening feature floating cadavers, guts spilling out of crude incisions like vines of ivy that wrap around his body to squeeze the breath out of his lungs, and fields of flowers that wither and die and grow. It’s an endless cycle --- life to death to life once more.

He wakes up, paces the length of his living room, then falls back into the same dreams he tries to avoid. But this time, instead of seeing a blooming and deteriorating meadow, he is met with a new view: a desolate wasteland bathed in vermillion, with rock formations that jut out of a hazardous base of lava. Screeches echo in the distance and linger in the stale air. Watching from his spot atop a craggy cliff, Will’s face is met with waves of heat from the temperature of the ground, and he takes a step back lest he fall to his death. Directly out of the path of the heat and into a cavern of shadows, a chill travels through his body and settles in his core, its icy tentacles suctioning themselves under the cage of his bones. He tries to inhale, to let in air and dispel the cold, but the image of ruination in front of him diverts his attention until he is a gasping heap on the dusty floor.

Will gets pulled out of his dream by barking, and it takes him a minute to recognize his surroundings and catch his breath before he rises from the sweat-drenched sheets and steadies himself on shaky legs. When his head clears and he has some semblance of stability, he realizes that the barking coming from his dogs is not hostile; their yips of excitement towards the front door of the house knit Will’s brows together, because they only act that chirpy in his presence or when out in the wild.

He opens the door, expecting Jack or Alana, to find...nothing. The outside world is still dark out, but midnight blue skies hint at the beginning of dawn that creeps over the tops of the trees. Will sticks his head out the door frame to look left and right, trying to find what roused his dogs so early in the morning, but comes up empty. It’s only when Buster zips out from between his legs to start sniffing at something on the welcome mat does Will think to look down.

He picks up Buster in one hand and a velvet pouch in the other, the size of the mystery object smaller than his palm. Will takes one more glance at the yard and surrounding forest before he shuts and promptly bolts the door with the hand carrying the item, whatever lying inside it digging into his skin through the softness of the fabric.

Once all the dogs are situated back into their beds and Will rechecks the locks on all his windows, he takes a seat on the edge of his mattress and stares down at what was left for him. He had not noticed it at first, but upon further inspection he spots the taffy pink dittany of crete flowers woven into the drawstrings of the bag. He colors at the message, then tugs at the opening and reaches with his fingers to pluck at what’s inside.

A fishing lure.

It’s a standard metal hook, the end sharp and fine, with an array of accessories tied to its head. Glittering ruby beads catch the light as they peek among soft tawny tufts of unknown origin --- all tied together with shiny string that Will is convinced is real spun gold. The weight of the lure lies heavy in his hand, moreso its significance than anything else.

He places it on the table already overrun by homemade fishing gear and bait, and he lines it up with his finished products. It sticks out in the same way Hannibal did in the clearing, not because its appearance looks out of place but because of its sophistication and otherworldly quality. The lure seems to glow and stir the air around it, almost as if it is drinking in the first light coming through the windows.

He leaves it there and retreats back to his bed, hoping to deal with the implications of this gift later, but as he settles underneath his sheets he comes to a realization:

The body, the fishing lure, this is all just the beginning.

He feels a stalk of yellow forsythias springing up between the curls of his hair before he closes his eyes again.

* * * * *

Will doesn’t tell Jack about Hannibal.

He tries to figure out what makes him come to that decision over cups of coffee and walks with his dogs throughout the week, but he keeps the information he learned to himself. He doesn’t dare venture back to the clearing with the lake either, whether out of apprehension or something else he won’t name.

He even gets the chance to reveal Hannibal’s plans when one of Jack’s servants shows up at his doorstep one morning, stuttering and flinching through some rehearsed script and asking if Will had any new insights about the case. The nymph was then chased off the premises by Winston and Zoe after the creature chose to ignore Will’s continuous denials.

He wishes he hadn’t spent hours dismantling Alana’s barriers of protection after that incident.

A part of him knows that he should do the right thing, maybe even confront Hannibal and get more out of him before he goes to Jack, but as much as he wants to hide it and push it to the back of his mind he is _curious_ to see what will happen next. He’s interested in the game Hannibal is playing, and he can see the chess board in his mind’s eye and the players involved.

And the bigger and more perverse piece of him aches to know where _he_ fits in to all this.

Because Hannibal is anything but subtle, at least when it comes to his romantic notions, but there’s more to his words than what he explicitly says. He’s holding back something and Will is determined to watch this match unfold until that mystery is unveiled.

When Beverly’s energy signature pops up on his property two weeks after the first murder, Will knows he’s about to get some answers.

He doesn’t wait for her to knock on the door before he pulls it open and asks, “What happened?”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “You better prepare yourself for this one.”

She holds out her hand, and it takes Will a second to understand what she means by the gesture.

“I can just teleport us there.”

“You don’t know where we’re going.” She smirks. “And it’s more fun my way.”

He stares at her unblinkingly, her sly smile steadfast, and he self-consciously rubs his palms on his jeans before taking her outstretched hand.

Whooshing air encloses around their forms before Will’s stomach dips --- the sensation of buoyancy lifting his feet out from underneath him. He’s vaguely aware that a gust of wind shuts his front door behind him as they’re lifted up, floating and hurtling away from Wolf Trap. He can barely see what’s going on around him despite his best efforts to try and absorb the experience of rushing blasts and biting breezes, when he’s suddenly deposited on solid ground.

Beverly faces him again and briefly flashes him a grin before gliding away.

Unlike last time none of Jack’s lackeys mill about the area, but Will is quickly able to place why. Beverly dropped him off at B.A.U. Headquarters: the seat of Jack’s power. The building thrums with activity, all aspects of the structure forcing its way into Will’s senses. It draws in life as if it's breathing, the might of it constraining his own presence and dulling his powers.

He looks up as high as he can --- the top of the building obscured by lumps of white, fluffy clouds --- and inhales a deep gulp of air through his mouth.

It’s been a while since he last visited Mount Olympus.

There is no reason for him to when he doesn’t hold a place there. Whenever Alana went, whether that be for celebrations or formal business, he did as well, but he has a tendency to leave such events early. The seat of the gods’ authority is more symbolic now than anything.

That becomes even more evident when Will arrives in the Pantheon.

Usually the main hall that houses the thrones of the twelve principal gods is awash in glittering light, with the chairs set up in an arc along the pillared white walls and against the ornamental mural on the floor that depicts the entire layout of the land. Now the area looks dull around the edges from shadows never resided before, and instead of seeing Jack seated on his throne, he stands alone in the center of the room.

Will makes his way over slowly, his feet resounding as they hit the marbled floor, and takes in the obvious: there is nothing in the room. Aside from the crime scene that he can just barely see over Jack’s form, there is no movement in the room. The mountain’s initial magnitude is barely there anymore, as if it has given its final exhale and gone still; he’s sure Jack’s surly mood has something to do with it.

Jack allows Will a minute to study the sight in front of them: there are only two thrones, yet different than the usual seats he remembers. Both hold dead naked bodies, their postures erect and stiff. They don’t have faces --- by the looks of it they seemed to have been carved off --- and atop their heads sit matching crowns inlaid with sparkling crystals.

Upon first glance the corpses are mirrors of each other, but with further inspection Will realizes that their similarities end there. There are various flowers sprouting out of each of their eye sockets as well as where their mouths should be, and both have strange and distinct carvings along their chest, up towards their shoulders.

Will closes his eyes and welcomes the swinging of the pendulum.

Knowing that Hannibal is the one responsible for the scene is somehow relieving. It’s easier to step into the role he’s meant to play, like he’s done it thousands of times before. The suit has become the stoicism and darkness he associates with Hannibal --- now his in a way --- and the rush of warmth that greets him is unsettling in its familiarity.

He sees himself preparing the altar, the message he wants to send to Jack, and all the components that go along with it. That nameless part of him that revels in such cruelty and beauty is passive in its actions but no less awake, and instead of feeling it overtake him he feels it settle around him like a warm blanket.

It’s not long before Will opens his eyes, and he begins to speak without really following what he’s saying. “It’s the same killer, and like last time these victims don’t matter to him; it’s what and who they’re supposed to embody.”

“And who are they,” Jack demands more so than asks.

Will steps close enough to touch, and after assessing the flowers and marks he stands in front of the first one. “Orchids, snapdragons, and variegated tulips--” he motions to each as he points them out, “--represent love and luxury, deception and grace, and beautiful eyes.” He moves over to the other one. “This one has a bigger selection. The white hydrangeas in this victim’s mouth suggest that the murderer is bragging about this...accomplishment.” He swallows. “For the rest: viscaria flowers literally translate to ‘will you dance with me’, while the ivy sprig of white tendrils shows the killer’s desire for returned affection.”

His eyes are fixated on the final batch of blooming raspberry red flowers --- their filaments and pollen sacs curving towards the high ceiling --- with his heart hammering in his rib cage. He shivers. “The last one: the spider flower. It commonly indicates true love, but it essentially symbolizes to the receiver that the giver wants to elope with them.” Will’s admittance echoes in the chamber, and the silence that follows it is strained.

Jack clicks his tongue. “So this is a love letter.”

Will’s neck flushes. “Yeah, but it is also another message to you. Whoever did this infiltrated the seat of the gods’ power, did away with their thrones, and left this in their place.”

“What about the markings?”

“I don’t know what all of them mean but a few stand out. The first has flames across the chest and a cornucopia further down. The other has a drinking horn and key on his neck and left shoulder.” He pauses, then furrows his brows. “Do you know where the crowns came from?”

A long suffering sigh. “The thrones. My guys already did their work on the scene and figured out that the thrones they’re sitting on were melted down and remade from some of the other ten. The rest went towards the craftsmanship of those crowns.”

“The ornaments?”

As if summoned, Jimmy, another one of Jack’s nymphs, pops in. “Just conferred with Brian and Beverly and we got some interesting information.” He sweeps his hand towards the headdresses. “Based on how big those rocks are, this person is swimming in luxury.”

“How does that tie in?” Jack asks, impatient.

“Here’s the important part,” Jimmy says, almost vibrating with enthusiasm. “Most of those jewels --- the black opal, pink diamond, and painite in particular --- are incredibly rare. You can’t find them in such abundance; it would take years and specified resources to accumulate a collection like this one.”

Wherever Jimmy goes, Brian is close behind. “What he’s saying is that this much wealth doesn’t exist on Earth. I even asked around some land nymphs and they confirmed it.” He purses his lips. “So no human or creature fits the profile.”

Jack slowly turns to face Will. “When you read the first crime scene, you said the person who did that was a divine figure.” He doesn’t wait for Will to comment. “Is our killer a god?”

The silence is stifling --- the three of them waiting for Will’s answer with bated breath. “Is there a god who has access to outrageous amounts of fortune, and who possesses the capabilities and mind for these atrocities?”

Will sees the moment it clicks: when epiphany strikes, then meets in a brief flash of fear that streaks across Jack’s face. He sounds dazed when he says, “I’ve got somebody in mind.”

When Will exits the building after he is promptly dismissed, a woman stands in his way.

Her golden blonde hair gleams like one of the crowns from the crime scene, but her rigid demeanor is liking that of the thrones. The bronze epaulettes on her navy blazer and the metal belt that cinches her waist tells Will all he needs to know about who she is despite having never met her before.

“I assume you took a different moniker, or do you still go by Athena?”

“It’s Bedelia now,” she murmurs in a voice as smooth and fine as satin. She blinks at him slowly. “Whatever you’re doing, I would advise against it.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“Testing your allegiance.” The frown lines around her mouth dig deeper into the skin. “You think you know Hannibal, but he tends to toy with his food before consuming them.”

“I have no interest in playing with Hannibal.”

“And yet we find ourselves dressed and positioned as he sees fit.”

Will’s response to that is a minute adjustment of his glasses. “If you know what he intends to do, why bother coming to me?”

“I was curious to know if you are the catalyst that will shift the outcome, but I got my answer.” She turns to leave. “We all need to prepare for what’s coming; we may be imperishable, but there is horror in immortality.”

* * * * *

Will goes into the forest alone.

There is an ache of suspense rooted within his chest and a fizzing excitement wafting up his throat. Restlessness quickens his strides while impatience drives twitches along his hands to the tips of his fingers.

He senses Hannibal’s presence there already --- this information whispered to him by the plants and the animals in a language that is only his own. He wonders if Hannibal no longer feels the need to mask his energy or if Will is so attuned to him that it is incapable of being hidden anymore.

The moon illuminates sections of his path when not blocked by the canopy of trees --- its radiance bouncing off rocks and reflecting off the sap of the trunks. The wind, tingly and fluid, glances off his body and through his hair as he heads closer. There are fragments of Hannibal’s impression in its wisps, both brushing and prickling at the same time.

There’s a small smile on Hannibal’s lips as Will breaks through the clearing, but his head is tilted up toward the light, casting shadows that curve and slither and swell around him. His eyes are closed, so Will takes a moment to sweep his gaze over his form: a gray wool coat over a dark blue suit with lines sharp enough to exhibit his trim outline. His hair is motionless despite the breeze, and Will tries not to linger too long at looking at his face.

Yet as soon as Will’s eyes pass over his, they open and pin him there. Even if Will didn’t have his gift, he could read the pleasure and intensity coming off him in waves.

“Hello, dear Will.”

He wishes he wore his glasses now. “Do you have a habit of publicizing your advances, or do you just enjoy humiliating people?”

Hannibal looks at him mildly. “It depends on who is the subject of humiliation.” At Will’s glare, he amends, “That was not my intention, but I wonder how you found yourself at the center of such logic.”

Will ignores the non-question. “Jack knows.” He doesn’t need to elaborate on the double-meaning.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not worried?”

“Are you?” Hannibal shoots back, but there is only simple curiosity underlying it.

He thinks to lie but doesn’t. “I don’t even want to know what his reaction will be if he finds out that I know more than I let on.”

“Do you fear him?”

The answer comes quick, and Will is surprised by how much he actually means it: “No.”

Hannibal hums, then takes a step closer to where Will stands. He feels the distance shrink like a taut rubber band letting off pressure. “Why did you come tonight, Will?”

He has no idea himself, so he stays quiet.

Hannibal tilts his head --- the shifting of a predator. “Was it to see me? Confront me?”

“I want to do what’s right.” The admission floats limp and hollow in the air.

“What of the unavoidable?"

Will scoffs. “What you’re doing isn’t intrinsic. Human nature doesn’t work like that.”

“It can, as we were never human in the first place,” he counters. “You have the potential for it, if only the blinds were removed from right in front of you.”

Will shivers, and Hannibal tracks the action. Another step, then Hannibal says, “Jack, Alana, everyone: They tamp down your abilities and sequester them away until it is fit for them to pry you out of the cell they confine you in. They are too fixed on the leash around your throat that they do not notice the savagery they have anchored themselves to.”

“As if you’re not itching to do the same?” There is a hint of distaste in his tone that sours his expression.

“Jack and Alana call it a gift, as if it’s a hat that can be taken off at any given moment. Your abilities are inherent: nobody bestowed it upon you. It is entirely yours alone.” 

“Mine and the killers living in my head.”

“Those are elementary blocks in the makeup of your psyche. With time and direction, you will be able to fully control the intrusive thoughts, but only if you accept your true nature.”

Will considers him, hoping that nothing on the outside betrays his inner judgement. The weight of Hannibal’s words encompasses his heart and heats his blood. The rush of desire, for Hannibal’s unspoken promises, carves away the doubt and coaxes awake the viciousness inside him --- a malevolence towards anyone who used him and treated him like a broken teacup, with the other side being a vehement hunger for the power that lays in the hands of the god just inches away.

He is startled out of his cravings when Hannibal asks, “Do you know why you have an affinity for this clearing?”

His eyebrows dip. “It’s my territory. I’m connected to every aspect of the landscape.”

“There is another element to consider.” Hannibal walks to the edge of the lake behind him. “In the mythologies humans spin about our kind, they claim that there are multiple entrances to my realm: western end rivers, caverns in ancient cities, even clefts in the ground.” He turns to Will again. In the dark, his eyes glimmer like polished garnet. “The main one is through this lake.”

The implications come to Will’s mind unbidden: the pull to this area in particular, the appearances of the man in front of him, and the sense of rightness that floods his body from the proximity to the blackness. A thumping in his chest gains momentum, but all he feels is vivification.

Will takes it for what it is: an invitation. “Take me there.”

* * * * *

He expects skinned bones and waterfalls of blood. Dried up corpses and the stench of death.

He did not prepare for a three-headed hell hound the size of an apartment building.

Two of Cerberus’ heads nuzzle Will’s face while his tail hits the dirt in booming tremors that shake the ground, while the other allows himself to be pet by Hannibal. It’s an amusing sight: the God of the Underworld keeps a dog as company.

Hannibal shows him the Elysian Fields, the Fields of Mourning, and the Asphodel Meadows. All three are unassuming, and Will inquires into the nightmarish vision from his dreams. Hannibal only gives him a secretive smile.

His palace extends for miles beyond the horizon --- its stone walls a pale abalone grey against streaks of carmine red in the sky. They dine at a long, mahogany table, with Hannibal on one end and Will on the other. The former’s appetite does not waver with its intensity when Will deliberately holds his eyes as he shucks scarlet pomegranate seeds into his mouth.

That night on top of cool silk sheets, when Will slowly rolls his hips in time with Hannibal’s gasps, he chases the string that fastens him to the man underneath him. The restraints on the mystic entity snap and fall away, and Will revels in the accompanying obsidian that rises to meet him. Stars flare and die behind his eyelids, and his lashes flutter with every moan and wave of twilight mist.

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal pants. “How you shine in the darkness.”

“No,” he hisses out. “I become it.”

* * * * *

The volcanic terrain that Will distinguished in his imagination beats in time with his soul. He couldn’t fathom the full force of its power while he was asleep, but standing there in person was a different experience all together. The miasma drifting from the depths of Tartarus wraps around his body like an embrace, and he inhales the aroma of the domain as it penetrates through the distant cries of dead souls.

Blasts of heat flush his face red, but his gaze remains fixated on the sight beyond the cliff: gods, major and primordial deities, drowning in the eternal engulfing flames.

Will sees the red curls of the deceptive Messenger God, the charred skin of the blacksmith, the glittering tears of the God of Marriage, and all others he has no attachment to. Their screams ricochet off the rocky embankments as they surrender to their fate, and with each resounding descent his strength amplifies.

When his eyes catch Jack’s, they stay there. The rage written across his face bleeds into terror with each passing moment, like he’s waiting for the countdown and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“Don’t do this, Will!” Alana screams from somewhere in his periphery. Her wheezes and sobs go unanswered, and they intensify when a hand is pressed to the top of Will’s curls.

Hannibal’s fingers weave through the asphodels, Royal Poinciana, and narcissus flowers tangled in Will’s hair as he stoically stares down Jack. His husband kisses the top of his head, his hand moving to his shoulder as he whispers in his ear, “Do gods deny acts of submission, my dear?” The burning scorch of the fiery pits climbs higher with his words, and Jack yells Will’s name again. 

There, standing beside the King of the Dead with the essence of the Underworld surging through his veins and the lifeforce of the gods leaching its way out of their bodies, 

he smiles.


End file.
